Treasure Island

Jan Sand

(February 2 1926 / USA)

Foggy, Foggy Blues


There is a morning fog here
That rises from the snow
To inhabit head-tall space
In a lightless glow.
Shapes normally well known
Allow themselves to flow,
To merge, to flux. strange change
Distorts the landscape into something we don=t know.
Houses bulk and loom to presume
A fearsomeness to destroy their square
Solidity; they lean in overhangs
Precarious as if to leap from there
To here, to pounce on our fragility
With agile smokey grace on reptile legs
And crunch our bones with jagged window panes.
Dragon cars with laser eyes growl the streets
And sweep from murk to murk.
Dogs go berserk to howl and bark
At lumps that skoot around the dark
In swift retreats that leave no mark.
A garbage can gets kicked and tipped
And rolls to clang against a lamp post.
Silence picks the click of heels that tacks
A path to intersect our spot - this way comes
God knows what. Better now to retreat
Back to our well known street to sit
Windowside and wait the Sun
To burn away the haze
And disentangle streetwise maze.

Submitted: Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, May 21, 2013

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